ECHOES OF THE WEEK

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1272, 16 July 1896, Page 23

ECHOES OF THE WEEK

Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet To run ainuck and tilt at all I meet. Pope. BY SCRUTATOR. Hearty congratulations to the Premier upon his first Budget speech. What a many sided man is Mr Seddon and how wonderful is his grip of what is to him a comparatively new subject. It is one of the clearest expositions of the state of our finances we have ever had on such occasions, and even the Premier s most bigoted political opponents should now frankly admit that he is a man of surpassing ability. I wonder whether Australian preserved meat enjoys any sale in Belgium. I have read somewhere that the price of the Australian article was complained of as too high, and that the worthy Belgians prefer the local article which is much cheaperBut unless lam much mistaken there will be a big drop in che consumption of the said local article and it may bo that the Australian meat may now get a chance. A reason for this is to be found in a speech made in the Belgian Chamber of Representatives on the 27th May last, when one of the members, M. Cartuyvels, called the attention of the House to the importation into Belgium of old horses from England, which ware afterwards killed and converted into tinned meat. No fewer than 6000 horses had, lie said, thus entered Belgium in the course of last year. The speaker pointed out that this traffic was full of danger for the public health in Belgium. The Minister of Agriculture admitted the justice of M. Cartuyvels’ representations and stated that he would shortly take measures to stop the practice complained of. “ Horses destined to be utilised as tinned meat should be siiecially branded. Great precautions would in future be taken with regard to the import trade.”

I like that expression—“ horses destined to be utilised as tinned meat should be specially branded.” Evidently tho Minister of Agriculture considers it quite proper and reasonable that tinned horseflesh may bo sold, and presumably he imagines that there will still be a market for it, wherein he does not pay any great compliment to his fellow-countrymen. Well, well, there’s no accounting for tastes, but I would make a modest wager that the tinned “ geegee ’* has not been sold “ as sich.”

But, talking about the disposal of Old England’s aged and broken down horses, an even more disgusting story recently appeared in a Home paper. An Englishman residing in the extreme south of Franco, in the marshy country where the leech industry is carried on, and whence hundreds of thousands of the useful but hideous bloodsuckers are annually exported,‘told the London paper in question that hundreds of broken-down horses were imported from England and turned loose into the marshes for the benefit of the leeches, which were fattened on the “living animals ” before being exported. I have watched for some denial of this horrible story—it appeared in tho London Daily Chronicle, if I remember rightly—but so far I have not come across any contradiction. And yet there is a wealthy and influential S.P.C.A. in England. Perhaps its charity begins at home and stops there.

Why is it that parsons so often talk the voriest balderdash ? Perhaps it is because the special and saving sanctity about “ the cloth,” the immunity from being promptly and publicly “tackled,” gives the tenant of a pulpit encouragement to say the most palpably stupid of things. AtPahiatua on a recent Sunday evening a black-coated person called Griffin, who masquerades in the guise of a Methodist parson, calmly absurd the whole community, and yet so far as I can gather from the local paper his congregation were such a miserable, craven-spirited lot that not a man of them dared stand up and tell the slanderer, as he should have been told, that he was an outrageous libeller of his fellow townsmen. The subject of the “ discourse ” was “ Morality in Pahiatua.” No doubt it was duly advertised, for the latter day parson of the sensation - mongering order, always advertises his subjects, and often displays a catchpenny ingenuity in the titles thereof which would bo invaluable to the proprietors of certain soaps and pills. As to the sermon itself I quote the Napier Daily Telegraph as follows The Rev Mr Griffin, speaking on Sundav night in the Methodist Church, Pahiatua, on the subject of “ Morality in Pahiatua,” indulged in some very straight hitting. Amongst his hardest hits were the following : —“ Pahiatua is often spoken of as the house of gods. In his opinion it was the home of all the evil gods it was possible to cram into so small a space.” “ In his opinion Pahia-

tua should be associated with Sodom and Gomorrah.” “If fifty righteous men were required to save Pahiatua from destruction, in his opinion they could not be found. In fact he would not be prepared to say ten could be found in the time.”

Mr Griffin is evidently a true type of the modern Pharisee, and as to the grossly bad taste, the absolute indecency of his remarks, I will say nothing. But what sort of creatures are the members of his congregation that there was not a man to promptly stand up and promptly denounce the “ reverend ” preacher extraordinary remarks. The “ Reverend” Griffin talks about the difficulty of finding ten righteous men in Pahiatua. I don’t know about the righteousness of tho place but that particular section who attend the “Reverend Griffin’s church are about the meanestspirited lot of creatures calling themselves men that can be found in New Zealand. On the occasion I was in Pahiatua it seemed to me the chief feature of the place was mud. With “mud” Mr Griffin is evidently well supplied but I thought better of the Pahiatua people than to think they would sit dowu calmly and let .any man, parson or any other throw their own mud at them.

Happy England, Merry England, “Christian” England, what a delightful country it is for the “Have Nots” ! For the “Haves” it is a pleasant country, a country where every luxury is procurable, where everything—save the fogs —is bright and enjoyable, but oh for tho “ Have Nots ”itis a terrible place. “ Read, mark, learn and inwardly digest,” if you please, the following pregnantly significant little paragraph from the London Weekly Despatch of the 10th May “ A sad story of want was told yesterday to the coroner at an inquest upon the body of Ellen McCarthy, wife of a clock-case maker, living at 131, St. John’s road, Clerkenwell. The husband, in his evidence, deposed that ‘for some time his earnings had never exceeded 10s a week, and sometimes less. Of that amount he paid 5s a week for rent, many times they were without food of any kind, and for days lived on dry bread. (Sensation.) He had applied to the parish, but was refused outdoor relief, and told that he had better go into the married people’s quarters. Ilis wife said she would die on the floor of starvation ratlior than go into the place.’ Dr William John Hunter deposed that the immediate cause of death was syncope, but this was set up by slow starvation. The jury returned a verdict of ‘ Death from natural causes.’ ”

On the text provided in the above cutting a woman, “ Anna Roslyn ” by name, contributes to tho Weekly Dispatch some verses, not particularly brilliant perhaps, from a purely literary point of view, but full of a simply-worded indignation and pathos which ought to go right home to the hearts of all decent-minded English folk :

Yea, she is dead, she died last night, too late

you come to save, And all that you can give her now is but a

pauper's grave ; Ay, just a narrow piece of ground, where not a stone will stand, While they that murdered her go free and honoured in the land.

Is this your boasted justice? Lock at this garret bare, Lood at that form dead on those rags, your justice placed her there ; Are these your laws? Look or. that face and tell me how she died. Ay, starved to death; and jet yuir vaunted law is satisfied.

Then bury her, ’tis all that you can do now she is dead, The law will give her burial, though it refused her bread. Strange, in a Christian country no hand is raised to stay Assassins who with cruel wor's and harshness crush and slay.

All night she raved and begged for food, ’twas more than I could bear ; And though I knew they'd give no aid unless I took her there, I left my dying wife, I went and cried for help again ; Ay. on my knees I begged for bread ; you know ’twas all in vain.

Dazed through the garish streets I reeled back to this wretched place. I had no light, I could not see the dying woman’s face : But I heard her last weak whisper as I kissed her clammy brow — “I’m going, and I’m glad, dear Ned, they cannot part U 3 now.”

Ay,■■never to be parted by our laws humane and just, . , , The parish now must give a grave though it refused a crust. There lies a murdered woman, and free her slayers go — And this is “Merry England,’’ the envy cf

the foe ! And yet people wonder sometimes that Socialism is making such rapid progress in the Old Country. I don’t.

A Wellington school committeeman sends me a story from the English Lancet, dealing with a case of wholesale malingering amongst certain Old Country school children. I have heard of malingering in New Zealand, but never on so large a scale as is shown by the Lancet

story, which reads as follows : “The typical schoolboy has long been known as a fairly skilful malingerer when occasion demands it, but his shamming is confined to the more homely complaints of headaches and toothaches, which are capable of rapid dispersion when the crisis which necessitated their presence is past. The children of Nassington—a village in Northamptonshire —however, go more carefully and deeply to work to avoid the toils of school. On account of the number of children who were kept from school because of a rash on their bodies, Dr Elliot, the Medical Officer of Health for that district, was asked to examine them with a view to finding out the nature of the strange disease. His report showed that the whole affair was a case of malingering. The children, about twenty-five in number, were suffering from no real disease, but, in order to stay away from school, they rubbed their hands and arms with the juice of the plant locally called “ Patty Spurge.” The result of this was that a vesicular eruption appeared, which in most of the cases resembled a herpetic eruption, (but in somo]there were blisters as large as half-a-crown. As the children appear to be studying the physiological effects of plants, a closer knowledge of the birch tree and its branches might possibly divert their energies into another channel, or at anyrate dull their keenness for practical botany.

Mr Tyson, the Queensland millionaire squatter, the wealthiest man in Australia, is careless as to his attire and consequently is frequently taken for what he is not, a poor “ rouseabout.” In this connection the Melbourne Punch circulates what it calls the “Latest Tyson Story”:—“One morning he was doing a bit of gardening in front of his homestead, when a swagger happened to pass along and promptly asked if there was ‘ any show of a job/ The The squattor, shabbily habilitated, snarled a negative. ‘ What sort of a bloke is the blanky boss?’ questioned the newcomer. ‘No good.’ ‘Does he part up his beans?’ The question struck Tyson with a sudden thump, and lie bitterly remarked, ‘ Look at me. For fifty years I’ve grafted for him just for board and clothes, and see the clothes he gives me.’ ‘He can go to , then,’ said the wayfarer; * I don’t work for the vermillion thief.' In retiring Tyson is said to have remarked, with some emphasis, ‘And I’m sorry I’ve wox*ked for him so long, either.’ ”

The Burns Centenary celebration duly eventuates next Tuesday, and already the “ clans ” are gathering for the ceremony. One may poke a little harmless fun at these patriotic functions but the spirit that underlies thorn is most laudable. And, mark you, he who chaffs a Scot and a Scots function often comes off second best, that wretched Southern slander are jokes made “ wi’ deefficulty ” notwithstanding. In this connection a good yarn told by“Atticus” in the latest issue to hand of the Melbourne Leader is timely and not inappropriate. “ Why were you not at our ball, Doctor ?” asked the stalwart Highland chieftain. The doctor was the thinnest of Melbourne medical practitioners, as thin as Master Slender or the “ lean and slippered pantaloon ” as described in the Seven Ages of Man. But he had a merry wit. “ Well, Mac,” he retorted, “I was told I would have to wear kilts like yorrr barbarous countrymen, and I was afraid I •would be run in by tho police.” Tho Highlander’s glance rested on the pants which covered the “ shrunk shanks '* and replied, “ Yes! you might have been for having no visible means of support.” Exit the doctor.

Apropos to the Burns Centenary, I would direct the attention of my readers to an essay in appreciation of “ the Man and His Work,” which appears under the signature of “ Scrutator ” in another page of this week’s issue of the Mail. The Post, so I notice, quotes a paragraph from the Bulletin anent the alleged evils of Party government. But there have been dozens of paragraphs in the Bulletin of late which the Post has not quoted—paragraphs ridiculing and exposing as worthless, tawdry shams the pretensions of the New Zealand Opposition and its sycophantic press followers to political omniscience and virtue. The Post editor reads his Bulletin with great regularity, but he is conveniently blind to anything which doesn’t suit. And, apropos to the Bulletin and to the Post, how vastly amused will be Edit' r Archibald, of the former, when he sees the Post announcing with a characteristically pompous air of patronage that the Bulletin “ is not always refined in its methods.” To harp upon <c refinement ” comes well from a journal which has been hounding down Mr Ward in the most scurrilous terms, and which is now always and most carefully on the side of the top dog in a fight. To Correspondents. H.B.K. (Pahiatua): Neither time nor space avail ible for

any detailed criticism but your verses strike me as being creditable alike to your heart and to your literary faculties. H.P. (Feildir.g) : Incident of too slight and too purely local interest to merit description in this column. —J. 8.: Next week. Have been too busy even to look at it. Don’t bo so impatient.—Churchman (Hutt) : You do me an injustice. I will defy you or any one else to find a simple “sneer at religion ” in this column since it was started, over four years ago, up to the present time. But I detest Cant and Hypocrisy and such small power of satire as I possess shall always be directed to the exposure of these two most hateful things, and that without the slightest respect of persons.